


le désir de fleurir

by justcourbeau



Series: la version française [2]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Bughead baby, Children, Communication, F/M, Married!Bughead, Shameless Smut, book tour, stay at home dad!Juggie, writer!betty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-10-23 18:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17688716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justcourbeau/pseuds/justcourbeau
Summary: Things with Juggie are fine.They’re totally fine.They just have… growing pains.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!
> 
> So here's another thing I wasn't really planning to write.
> 
> It's a follow up to le sentiment d'appartenance, so I would advise reading that first. It'll make more sense.
> 
> Things are not quite as we left them.

_This pain, these problems_

_You know they’re not forever_

_My love, my sweetheart_

_We’re on to better weather_

__\- It Can’t Rain Forever by Oh, Honey_ _

 

* * *

 

Doing her best to ignore the whispering and backward glances of the last few students leaving the auditorium, Betty slides her things back into her briefcase, double checking that she has every power cord she came in with for the lecture. This isn’t her first guest appearance for one of Trev Brown’s Creative Writing courses at Columbia, but with the recent announcement of not only her new book release but also of the movie adaptation talks surrounding her first novel, she’s noticed a slight uptick in furtive side glances, and the class had been a bit more energized than last semester. She knows Trev had talked to them about her earlier in the curriculum, but it’s different this year.

Trev speaks up after watching the last retreating back from the other side of the podium. “Thanks again, Betty. It’s always nice hearing you talk about creative processes. Fresh perspective is a wonderful thing.”

“You must be tired of hearing me speak about the same few things by now,” Betty laughs.

“Believe it or not, your lectures have changed over the years—grown, I mean, in the good way,” he presses.

“Well, my pleasure, as always. Them asking questions is a great way for me to think critically about my own work and habits, so it’s a win-win. A little self-reflection is what everyone needs.” Betty tightens her ponytail and gives him a smile before reaching for her phone. The screen flashes up brightly, and she can see she has a bunch of waiting notifications, a good number of them from Jughead.

“Hey, I was wondering if you had time for a drink? I’d love to pick your brain some more…” Trev trails off at the look she flashes him, a look of recognition taking up in the set of his eyebrows.

“I’m sorry, Trev,” she starts. “I’m already half an hour late leaving, and I have people waiting on me.”

“Oh, right.” He nods. “Family.”

“Yup,” Betty chirrups, swinging her bag onto her shoulder and checking one last time that she’s not leaving anything behind. “But email me! I can make time as long as I have some warning!”

“Okay, Betty, will do.” Trev gives her a little wave before tucking his hands into his pockets and turning back to the whiteboard.

She’s glad she wore sneakers today; she dashes out the door and around the corner, heading for the parking lot on the far side of campus. Her bag thumps heavily against her thigh, bouncing quickly behind her.

Her mental to do list flips around and around like a rolodex of chore categories, each with a sublist of bullet points and reminders. After climbing into the driver's seat, she scrolls through her notifications, picking out anything that looks important and saving the rest to deal with for when she gets home. A series of texts from Juggie unintentionally chronicles his hunt for their electric mixer, which he apparently found after an all-out manhunt by him and Jack, with an assist from Julie. There’s an on-screen reminder that she hasn’t met her word count goal for the day yet. Her editor sent an email asking to move up a meeting date by almost three weeks. Her optometrist’s office left a voicemail message about what she can confidently assume is her upcoming yearly exam.

Taking a deep breath and filing all of those little notifications under the ‘later’ tab in her brain, Betty shoots off a quick text to Juggie asking if he needs her to pick anything up from the store on her way home, which gets her a quick ‘no thanks we’re good’, and she shoves her keys into the ignition. The drive home is thankfully not too slow, even with traffic, and she makes good time.

Betty missed dinner because of the lecture slot, and so walking in to the smell of freshly baked cupcakes makes her stomach growl loudly, twisting and wrenching in her belly.

“Do I smell Great-Grandma Cooper’s vanilla cupcakes?” she asks dramatically as she rounds the corner into the kitchen, enthusiasm partially fueled by the desire to stuff approximately three of them straight into her face, paper wrappers and all. She won’t, of course, because they’re all for Jack’s first grade class in celebration of his birthday, which happens to fall on the weekend that’s fast approaching.

There’s a chorus of “Mom!” and a distinct puff-cloud of flour before she’s receiving hugs from the two small-ish humans her and Jughead have brought into the world. As she’s bombarded from the chest down and Jack grabs onto her forearm, she realizes with a sudden jolt that his hands are sticky and it’s not flour that puffed into the air—it’s powdered sugar.

“Hey!” Juggie pipes up, looking at her over kid heads. “Wash your hands before you attack Mom!”

The fact that he’s got a frilly apron on—complete with the sloppy, drooping bow tied at his lower back—and a smear of blue food colouring on his arm is pretty endearing. However, the bags under his eyes are looking more like bruises, and Betty winces internally.

It’s late. She knows he’s been at it since before her, up early this morning to work on a submission.

“Why don’t you guys go get ready for bed, and I’ll finish in here?” she suggests, immediately glancing down and away from him to the kids. “I’ll make the icing tonight so you can colour it tomorrow and decorate all these _delicious_ smelling cupcakes—wow, you guys did great!” she continues, craning her neck and having a good look around at the cooling racks packed with little domed tops, golden and perfect.

“Already?” Julie sighs, glancing over at the wall clock above the dining room table. “It’s only…” Realization dawns on her face.

“Yeah.” Betty grimaces knowingly. “It’s already bedtime.”

“But you _just_ got home.” Jack’s voice takes on the slightest whining tone, and Betty gives him a tired smile.

“I know. Class ran long. I’m sorry,” she consoles, rubbing his little shoulder. “But I’ll be home tomorrow, and we can spend all afternoon getting the kitchen dirty, okay?”

A moment filled with noises of brief acknowledgement passes before Juggie speaks up, kitchen cloth bunched in his hand. “Mom’s right! You know the drill. Jack first!” he states, making a sweeping gesture with the flour-logged rag.

Both heads start to shuffle in the direction of the hall, and Betty finally glances back to Jughead.

“I got this,” she gestures around vaguely at the disarray of the kitchen. Cupcake liners, coloured sprinkles, cooling baking tins, batter-splattered utensils and measuring spoons and the unmistakable shape of a Kitchen-Aid bowl filled with other used equipment. “And that,” she points upstairs, the thumping of the kids going about the task of getting ready for bed sounding more far-off than it is.

“Yeah?” he asks, the set of his eyebrows tired but hopeful.

 _“Yeah_. Go.” Betty nods, giving him a smile that doesn’t quite warm her heart for some reason.

When he sets down the rag and apron and passes by her, she thinks she feels the briefest brush of his lips in her hair, and then he’s gone, trudging up the stairs to the office, or the master bath, or bed—depending on whichever need is calling the loudest.

.

.

.

Betty periodically checks on Jack while he showers and gets his clothes out for the morning, and reads to him once he's settled, the sound of the shower helping to lull him to sleep along with her voice as his sister takes her turn in their shared bathroom.

When he finally drops off, hair splayed over his pillow in a way that reminds her sharply of Juggie, she tucks him in gently and tiptoes from the room, leaving the door open a crack and moving down the hall as she always does.

“Hi, baby.” Betty edges Julie’s door open a little wider, peeking into the blue-hued room still lit by the lamp on her side table.

“Hi,” Julie snuffles, eyes drooping at the corners and belaying any of her attempts to disguise the importance of the encroaching bedtime.

“Do you want me to braid your hair tonight?”

Julie nods, and Betty pads over to the little girl’s bed as she rearranges herself and presents the back of her head, blonde hair still faintly damp from the shower she just had. Once Betty settles behind her and finishes finger combing it into three strands, she opens her mouth again. “How was your day?”

“Good. Just school and stuff. We did volleyball in Gym again—we practiced our bumps. How was your day?”

Not for the first time, Betty is struck by how often her daughter sounds more like an adult than an eight year old.

“It was good, too. I did the last lecture for this semester. I don’t like missing dinner at home.”

“I know,” Julie sighs, shoulders tired and head wobbling back and forth in time with Betty’s gentle braiding. When she’s done, she places a kiss on Julie’s crown, curving around her daughter’s frame and giving her a squeeze.

“Are you going to read for a little?” she asks, and Julie nods. “Okay. Lights out by 8, right?”

“Right.”

“Any preference for lunch tomorrow?”

“Just not peanut butter and jelly again.”

Betty laughs under her breath and tucks the blanket around Julie in once she’s done shifting around again, settling against her headboard.

Later, once the kitchen is clean and the cupcakes have been stored in airtight containers, Betty flicks the lights off throughout the lower level, checking that the front door is bolted before making her way upstairs yet again. The frosting can wait until tomorrow, as can the emails and the reminders and the endless nagging list of notifications she didn’t get to.

The light from the office is spilling out into the hallway when Betty approaches; the rest of the house is dark and quiet, and she can’t tell if the suffocating feeling in her throat is some form of unnamed and unidentified sadness, or allergies. It’s been a long day, either way.

“Jug?”

“Yeah?” he answers quietly, and she takes that as an invitation to open the door wider and lean into the room to speak to him.

“Everyone’s down, lunches are made, and I’ll take drop off duty tomorrow.”

His fingers stop their idle hovering over his keyboard, and he looks over at her.

“But it’s my day,” he says, the lateness of the hour etched into every dip and contour of his face from his temple to his jawline.

“I know, but… Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” She gives him the closest thing to a reassuring smile that she can conjure, and he does the same in return.

“Thanks, Betts,” she hears as she turns away, pulling the door back into its original position before making her way to the far end of the hall and disappearing into the darkness.

She doesn’t say a word when she feels the mattress move as he finally comes to bed, minutes or hours later.

.

.

.

The morning is a whirlwind of homework sheet location, lunchbox critiquing, and shoveling the last bites of breakfast into her children's mouths as they run out the door just barely on time. She only managed to throw on yoga pants and a slouchy sweater, her hair is in a tangled bun, and her work bag is bursting at the seams in the front seat, agenda and papers sticking out of the unzipped top. Betty pulls into the parking lot of the closest mall, intending to run in a grab a few groceries while she’s out.

Except her editor is calling, and for once, she’s not elbow deep in dishes, knee deep in powerpoint presentations, or completely submerged under the surface of writer’s block.

So she answers.

“Hi Ethel,” she greets, forcing her voice into something reminiscent of cheerful, a true feat considering all she really wants to do is go home and crawl back under the covers until 3:00 rolls around and it’s time to pick Julie and Jack up again.

“Betty!” the woman on the other end chirps. “I wasn’t expecting to hear anything other than your voicemail, this is excellent. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

Betty casts a glance around at the few other cars dotting the parking lot, all much closer to the nearest entrance than her. A plastic bag floats past on a breeze, rolling and folding and tumbling around and around before getting caught on the edge of a raised planter holding a large, green-covered tree.

They talk for 38 minutes, and Betty’s butt is numb by the time she climbs out of the SUV. As she makes her way into the building, she texts Cheryl.

_Hey, do you have any time free this morning for a call?_

She gets a predictably quick response.

**_Anything for you, Bettykins. What time?_ **

Betty checks the time.

_In about an hour?_

**_Call when you’re situated._ **

Betty hurries around, dropping into the optometrist in person to confirm her appointment before making her way up and down the aisles of the grocery store, mentally checking off the shopping list she left on the kitchen counter. After loading the bags into the trunk and pulling her agenda out of her bag, she settles in, makes a few notes on scrap paper, and dials Cheryl.

“I was beginning to think you’d gone underground.”

“Hello, Cher. How are you?”

“Just peachy, dearest. To what do I owe the call?”

“I just got off the phone with Ethel, and we had to bring some plans forward by a few weeks. I need to talk to Juggie about logistics, and I figured if anything on this end had changed, I should know now so we can make a plan with everything in mind.”

“Ah, yes. Well,” Cheryl pauses, and Betty can hear papers shuffling around and the telltale squeak of Cheryl’s massive office chair as she shifts her weight in the seat. “Nothing new to add to your calendar of obligations, but the deal is just about signed. Casting starts next month if all goes smoothly. Although, you already know they optioned for the trilogy, which means that once this is underway, and some early cuts get seen, they’re probably going to go ahead with screenwriting number two. It’s still a long way off, but have you talked to Jughead yet?”

The plastic bag had dislodged in her absence, but had also found a new home caught on the wheel of an abandoned shopping cart just a few yards to the left of the planter.

“No, not yet.”

“You should do that so I can put his name forward when the time comes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't forget to leave me a comment letting me know your thoughts on the time jump, and where you think this might go.
> 
> Thanks, lovelies!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #subtlepraisekink? You decide.

_Some things don't sit right_

_This close to midnight_

_You're someone else in this light_

_Ooh, ooh, ooh_

_Stand in the kitchen_

_Attempting to fix this_

_So I try to listen_

_To you, you, you_

\- La Di Da by Lennon Stella

* * *

 

The house is silent when Betty gets home, as silent as it was last night after the kids had been put to bed.

Standing at the foot of the stairs and straining, she hears the steady tap-tap-tap of the keyboard and sighs in relief. He's happier when he's productive, and maybe he's made some headway this morning, with her taking drop off duty.

Things with Juggie are fine.

They're totally fine.

They just have… growing pains.

Growing from one life phase to the next.

Between writing and organizing her next book tour starting in the summer once the kids are out of school, revisions, speaking at guest lectures and graduation speeches, she's a whirlwind at work and Juggie—

Poor Juggie takes the brunt if it.

He has his own deadlines to meet, and he's always up late finishing work.

And now she has something new, something potentially big for him, something potentially _too much_ for him, and she's not even sure she really wants to ask it of him. Betty knows he could be great at it—she just doesn't want him to think she's only asking because he's her husband.

Things also aren't totally… copacetic. Obviously.

If she was Alice Cooper, she might say things are _strained._

But she's not Alice Cooper.

And even though her and Juggie are in the same house, she sends him a text so that she doesn't disturb whatever roll he's on.

_When you break from the flow, come down and have lunch._

His response comes later, after all the groceries are away, after the frosting is whipped up and stored in the fridge for later, after she's had the soup simmering for 45 minutes already.

_**Okay.** _

.

.

.

Juggie shuffles into the kitchen an hour later, the back of his shirt rumpled from slouching in his desk chair.

"Hey," he starts. "Smells good in here."

"Cajun chicken soup." Betty looks up from her improvised work space at the dining room table, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose with a gentle nudge.

"I love it when you're home for lunch." He grins, sliding over to grab a bowl from the cupboard.

"Sounded like you were making progress up there," she throws out, waiting to see if he'll volley it back.

"Yeah." He nods, his back still to her. "Got my piece in now instead of a hair's breadth from the deadline, for once. Thanks for taking school duty this morning."

"Of course," Betty says, feeling that unnamed squeeze start to take hold of her chest once more.

To his credit, even when things are off-balance between them, he's always been good at smoothing edges—but that usually takes the form of resolutely ignoring that something is off to begin with. And they have to talk about it, now. Because time passes so quickly, and she wants him to have a fighting chance at this shot, if he wants it.

Betty lets him eat in peace, knowing that any conversation will go better for all involved if he's not hungry when she gets the ball rolling. Anticipatory dread settles in her stomach and she does her best to keep herself busy—jotting a few more notes down, adding a date to her calendar, rinsing dishes and cleaning her glasses and drinking half a glass of water she didn't really want.

And then he finally puts down his spoon.

"You know how Cheryl has been on my case lately?" Betty starts after floundering over where to begin.

"Yeah," Juggie nods along. "Did she finally come out with what she actually wants instead of letting you keep guessing?"

"Well… I've known for a few weeks what she's been trying to get at, but I just didn't know if I should ask."

Betty leans back against the counter, resisting the urge to cross her arms over her chest and close herself off. Jughead doesn't move. He just keeps her fixed with an unreadable expression, one that makes a nasty feeling start to bubble in her stomach. She really doesn't like that impassive mask of his.

"Is this about the tour?"

Betty can hear the carefully guarded tone in his voice, and she desperately pushes the urge to start crying down down _down_ out of sight.

Things between them have been tense for awhile. Communicating used to be so easy, so natural. Not something they had to think about or even be concerned about.

Why? What had changed between them?

"No. Nothing has changed for the tour. It's about the screenplay for book two." He blinks at her, and his eyebrow twitches. "Cheryl and her team have been suggesting that maybe you take a crack at it."

Jughead blinks again, but his expression starts to slip into pained disbelief, his head tipping back with slow-building exasperation.

"Betty, you _know_ I don't want anything to do with nepotism—you _know_ that."

"I know that," she confirms. He pauses.

"So why are you even bringing it up?"

"Because…" There are so many reasons, and not one of them has to do with the definition of nepotism. His eyebrows arch again, prompting her as he leans as far back in his chair as he can. "Because you've been a screenplay obsessed film fanatic for years. Because you know the book inside and out. Because you helped me with it so often. Because I know you'll do your best to bring the original vision to life. Because I want to see how _you_ see the story in your mind. Because this is right up your alley. Or… at least, I thought it was."

The silence is deafening. Betty catalogues every tiny nuance she can see on his face, which isn't much. He's a lot more practiced at concealing his emotions than she is.

"What about Film Junkie? I can't just drop them—I committed to biweekly submissions. And even though I barely make the deadline sometimes and end up pulling out half my hair, I still _want_ to be part of it."

"I know. And you shouldn't stop that. It's just an opportunity. To try something new and different."

He's silent again for another beat, before deflating in his seat and letting his head drop into his hands.

"If there was another 40 or so hours in the week, the answer would be so easy."

Betty closes her eyes, the twang of defeat and exhaustion so easily identifiable in his voice. And suddenly it's all so clear. She's known in the back of her head that he's got a lot to balance, considering that with every next step in _her_ career, they've had to recalibrate in order to maintain a healthy home for Julie and Jack. But the crux is, unfortunately, that she's simply not doing a good job of pulling as much weight as he is. Not with the dependable regularity that a cohesive, supportive family unit needs. And just like she thought earlier, Juggie's the one who picks up the slack, who takes the brunt of less desirable circumstances. He's the one up and awake before the rest of the house in order to finetune a piece because bedtime ran late the night before. He's the one doing most of the drop offs and pickups, interrupting any good flow he might be having with his work. He's the one who, without her even having to ask, will seamlessly take over a task for her when Ethel calls, or when Cheryl needs to FaceTime. He's the one who stays home with the kids and keeps the household running on a regular schedule while she flies to LA for professional portraits or San Diego for Comic-Con.

And when he does all that, and doesn't even get a tender, genuine thank you because it's fallen off her mental radar…

She gets it, now that she can see the problem more clearly.

"You can say no. That's an option."

It's just their breaths, their chests moving in the room, offbeat. Everything else is frozen and waiting, deeply incongruous with the heat of shame spreading over her chest and pulling her stomach down in her gut.

"I… I don't know."

"That's okay. You have time to think about it. If you want."

When he finally looks up again, face pink from where it was resting on his palms, she can tell something has shifted.

"We've always tackled this thing together, and it doesn't feel like we're tackling _anything_ together anymore."

There it is, the thing they've been dancing around for weeks—or even months, in retrospect.

"I know."

The weight leaves her in one fell _swoop_ of… something. Something like relief but not quite, because this is only the first step on a road she assumes will be long and potentially tedious, but so _so_ worth it.

"I'm just not even sure where to make the time to work on something that big," he continues, either tangentially to the Big Statement or in conjunction with it, she's not sure. But he's talking, and she's talking, and it's more raw communication than they've had in the last few months combined.

Betty pushes off the counter and leans forward over the kitchen island still separating them.

"Just think about it. And we can work on the other stuff, the working together stuff. _I_ can work on it." And then she has a staggering idea. "Come with me this time, Jug. On the book tour. You and Julie and Jack. And you can bring work, too, if you want. You can take time to do it. We can even get some help. I actually think we should have done that awhile ago."

"Help?"

"Yeah, like… a nanny. Or a babysitter. Or… just _help_ so that we—you—aren't stretched so thin."

"Give yourself some credit there, too. You work just as hard." It's the first bubble of hope she's felt, or recognition that perhaps not everything has gone to the dogs. "But Betty, that's expensive. For good childcare? Childcare that's willing to travel?"

"Juggie, it's just money. And it's not like we have none saved. _You're_ more important to me. You. Your feelings. Your _goals."_ Betty takes a breath and looks down, the speckled surface of the stone countertops holding her attention only in the way that something mundane and unimportant can because she's avoiding something much bigger and messier. "I've fucked up. I've fucked up so hard, and I didn't even see it. How is that possible?" She breaks her trance with the marble and glances up again, hoping the face she finds is open and believing and not shutting her out once more. "I've taken you for granted, and I'm so sorry. Come with me. You've never been able to come with me, and you're easily more than half of this circus management."

Jug blinks at her again, but this time his expression is plainly obvious, she thinks. It's relieved and it's tired and it's unsure and it's confused and it's watery.

"But that's not… that's my _job._ That's what we agreed to."

And just like that, the root of the problem peeks out of the earth, all looped and gnarled and covered in lichen and unhealed wounds. Wounds created by numerous parent duty trade offs, thankless late nights, and touch-starved neglect.

"Oh, baby, no," she starts, voice reverent, coming around the island and sinking into the chair next to his. "Well, _yes,_ we did agree to that, but that was eight years ago. Eight years, two kids—two _wonderful_ kids, four bestselling novels… And those are just some of the big accomplishments. You've had your own share of leaps and bounds, too."

His eyes take on an even more desperate slant, and Betty feels herself tearing up.

"Things change—things _have_ changed. Really, everything has. Even my love for you. It's so much _more_ than what it was in highschool, in college—when we got married, even. I couldn't do all this," Betty motions around at the scattered papers, post-it notes that have lost all their tack, fit-to-burst dayplanner, "without you. But most of all, I wouldn't _want_ to."

Jughead is still silent, still processing, but he's gazing at her continually now, eyes not cutting away to break the smothering acknowledgement that things in the Jones household have been going through a rough, bumpy patch, and not one adult present had wanted to look the fact in the face. The skin of his cheeks is damp.

Betty's phone lights up, silent mode enabled, and they both ignore the screen out of the corner of their eyes.

"And you can still say no. You don't have to come on tour—that would be great, but it would also complicate things if the circus had to be mobile. I get it. I won't be mad. But there are options—stay here, come with. Help, no help. I mean, I could even take the kids with me, and you can stay here and work. Or not work, just have the house to yourself. Or you could go away somewhere by yourself to work. Or not work, and just have a solo vacation. I'm just saying we have more avenues open to us, and I want you to pick one that you'll be happy with—one that works for _both_ of us. Not just me."

The quiet that falls between them is nothing like the ones that came a few minutes before. Juggie's Adam's apple bobs unpredictably in his throat.

"Things have changed, like you said," he says, voice uncharacteristically raspy. Betty's pulse is racing, her mind is racing, and she hopes…

She _hopes._

Jughead moves for the first time in what seems like years, reaching to take her hand and clasp it in his own. He continues. "You're right. Things have changed. And I haven't really changed with them, I don't think. Not in a way that's been good, anyway." Betty nods slowly, and he squeezes her hand. "Do you get the feeling that this is… some sort of new chapter? I feel like I'm in a choose-your-adventure book, and I'm either about to die a gruesome death summed up in one singular line, or move onto the next stage of horrors."

Before she can stop it, a bark of laughter spikes out of her. "I'm pretty sure that's just adulthood on the whole."

Juggie nods absently, and Betty leans forward to press her lips against the corner of his mouth in a soft, tentative test of their intimacy, considering there hasn't been much of it lately.

He turns his head and presses forward, settling his lips directly over hers, and a bloom of familiar comfort spreads. Closeness has been hard to come by when they've been on different pages for months, and the warmth it brings is unparalleled. With every moment that passes, with the press of his hand on the back of her neck bringing her in closer, he reassures her that _it's_ still there. That _it_ was just dormant for awhile.

.

.

.

Jughead leaves in order to mail a package to Archie after lunch, leaving Betty to finish up her calendar prep and more tour organization for half an hour.

She's done in 17 minutes, and spends the rest of her time chewing on her lip and reflecting over their post-lunch conversation. It was great and it's tentatively opened them up again, which is what she wanted. But it doesn't feel quite _done._ She knows it's not done in the talking sense either—they still have some big decisions to make, both together and individually—but there's something else that hasn't quite clicked back into place yet.

It's not until Jughead's returned and back in his office typing away that she thinks maybe she's identified the missing piece.

She takes the steps one at a time, carefully, still debating whether or not it will help or hinder the heightened emotional state they're in post-confessional. She really doesn't fully decide until she peeks through the office door and sees him twirl his dark hair in that way he does, reach forward to type out the end of a sentence, and lean back in his tippy chair to reread what he's put down. Juggie stretches his legs out, and his body goes hard for a moment as he flexes all the muscles possible from a sitting position.

And yeah—

She wants some of that.

She _really_ wants some of that.

But she's going to have to play the long con to get _precisely_ what she wants, because it'll be time to leave to get the kids soon. She _can,_ however, plant the seed now and wait for it to bloom all on it's own—later tonight, if she's lucky. Or tomorrow when the house is empty, if he can even make it that long.

_If_ he even takes the bait at all. He might not, with all the emotional uncertainty still lingering, despite the effort at clearing the first and biggest hurdle of all—to just start talking again.

History has proven that waiting, in the sense she means, is not Jughead's strong suit. Unless, of course, it's _his_ idea, and she's the one on the receiving end.

He's certainly good at _that._

Betty gives her head a shake, peering silently through the now wide open door. When he reaches up to rub at his eyes, she takes a step over the threshold.

"Are you doing okay?"

He jumps a little at the unexpected company and swivels in his chair.

"Yeah. Are you?" So earnest. A soft shade of him she hasn't seen in a long time.

"Yeah."

Betty takes a slow breath, taking in the feeling of a lighter chest, a more open space between them, and, she's about to prove, perhaps even the tiniest spark still calling out to be stoked.

"I think we both know there's a lot still left to talk about," she says, taking a few more ambling steps across the carpet as she does. "Too much for one afternoon, that's for sure."

"Yeah, I figured as much."

The look on his face is plain as day, for once, and she can tell he's picked up on something she's sending out. He looks painfully hopeful but fairly resigned that she's not here for exactly what she's here for. But, again, it's been so long, and things are so fresh, so she can understand that his unwillingness to draw the correct conclusion here in this moment is self-preservation.

When she circles around him to lean her backside against the edge of his desk, he tracks her and turns his chair back in time with his eyes.

He's watching her watch him, both quiet and toeing the line, the line they used to walk so deftly, so carefully and yet without thought. Slowly, he starts to sit forward in his seat, angled toward her, just a few scoots to his right, and when she doesn't protest or draw away from his touch, his hand cups around the back of her thigh and presses gently. It a sign for her to slide over closer, to situate herself directly in front of him.

His eyes are still fixed on hers as she does, and he keeps his hand cemented to her. Betty leans back infinitesimally, bracing the palms of her own hands on the edge of his desk as well.

The glint in his eyes that she hasn't seen in months is suddenly seeping into his gaze, and Betty has to remind herself to take it slow, to make sure it's there, to make sure she isn't imagining things and pressing him farther than he'll stretch after their talk downstairs. After all, not much time has passed between then and now.

She waits.

She waits for him to make the first move, but as she waits, she catalogues his response.

As his fingers slide farther around her thigh, they graze the skin just below the crease of her bum, and she resists the automatic urge to edge her legs open for him. He still must feel her reaction on some level, a muscle twitch maybe, because his breathing slows and becomes deeper, and he's looking up at her like he's only just realizing how hungry he is now that he's staring at a nine-course meal.

In actual fact, _she's_ the one who's going to be making a meal of _him,_ and she knows just exactly how he feels about that.

So Betty raises one foot off the ground and places it between Juggie's legs on his office chair, using her leverage against the desk to push him back and make more room for herself.

Realization dawns on his face, and the corner of his mouth twitches as his eyes flick from hers to her mouth and back to her eyes again.

"Really?" he asks, eyebrows raising in genuinely surprised arches as she sinks to her knees, the plush carpet softening the task.

"For as long as you've known me—" she scoots forward and settles her ass back on top of her heels, skimming her fingers up the inside of his thighs "—have I ever done this out of obligation?"

Betty had figured she would have to wait _at least_ until she had his pants around his ankles before he was forgetting to answer questions or losing his train of thought.

But then again, it _has_ been a long time since she last did this. 'Long' is subjective, of course, but for them… it's been awhile.

He's almost never had to ask, because she gives it so freely, and the look of pure adoration on his face as she tucks herself even closer to him and reaches to pull his zipper down makes her glow. Jughead lifts his hips when her fingers curl around the top of his clothing, and when he settles again, pants and boxers still caught around one ankle, he sinks farther down into his office chair. He's completely enraptured by the sight of her, she knows, and so Betty tips her head forward and swipes her tongue, barely touching, from the base up. She looks up at him, equally entranced, as her lips closing around his head makes his eyes slide shut and his mouth drop open.

She loves the way his face goes slack—later, when she's walking him along the edge, it will be sharp again—so she keeps her eyes on him and lets the warmth of affection spread spread spread as she moves down.

Jughead makes an involuntary grunting noise crossed with a whiny keen when he nudges the back of her throat, and Betty has to seriously concentrate on not grinning like a cheshire cat around him.

It only takes a few minutes of work on her part before his hips are rocking in time with her mouth and nonsensical, half-finished thoughts are falling from his lips.

"Betts, I'm—that's… oh, _fuck,_ I'm gonna—"

She hums around him, watching the tendons in his neck jump out, and she waits until the very last moment before getting as much of him into her mouth as she can and swallowing, squeezing him even tighter. His body shakes and jerks as he empties down the back of her throat, her palms on his thighs feeling every vibration and muscle tense. Betty waits as long as she can before moving up and off him again, taking in a slow, deep breath and quelling the oxygen alarm bells ringing in the back of her mind.

Jughead is still not completely back in his body yet, and Betty rests her cheek on one of his thighs patiently. After a minute, he blinks a few times, eyes still bleary, before giving his head a little shake and making to reach for her. Betty helps him by standing, but he just pulls her closer, forcing her to climb into his lap and settle against his chest, tucking her face into his neck and listening to his now even, slow breathing. Jughead's arms wrap around her shoulders, holding her tightly to him even though she's made no move to leave yet, and he buries his own nose into her hair.

They spend a few long minutes like that, Betty's hand on the side of his neck, thumb settled over the thrumming of his steady heartbeat, before Juggie clears his throat.

"Are you okay?"

"Mhm," Betty nods. "Are you?"

"I'm fucking _fabulous,"_ he responds, and she laughs, pressing a chaste kiss to the skin of his shoulder. "Give me another minute, and I can return the favour once I have better control over my limbs again."

"Can't," she sighs, pulling herself off his chest and into a sitting position again, knees on either side of his hips. "It's almost pickup time."

Juggie groans dramatically, covering the hands she has pressed to his chest with his own and giving a squeeze. "For the first time in a long time, I forgot we had kids."

Betty throws back her head in another laugh, shaking the desk chair under them. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"Absolutely, you should." Juggie grins and pulls her back down by the neck, pressing his lips to hers firmly. The fingers of his other hand grip her hip tightly, and he wiggles them under the waistband of her pants. "Are you sure I can't convince you to let me—"

" _Jughead,"_ Betty warns. "Don't start something you can't finish."

"Who said I wouldn't be able to finish this?" he questions, pulling his face back, affronted.

"Not to my satisfaction, you won't. Not in"—Betty glances at the clock on the wall—"the eight minutes before I have to leave."

The faux-offended look slides off his face in a heartbeat and is replaced by one that's low and starting to simmer. Juggie pulls her down again, kissing her soundly, fingers in her hair rooting her in his lap, and leaving her struggling to find air. When he finally lets her go—two minutes before she has to leave, now—and she wobbles her way to her feet with his help, he gives her hips another squeeze.

"Later, baby," he nods with determination, the smug set of his lips a promise of what's to come.

"Later," she breathes, and when she turns, she gets a playful smack on the ass.

Betty shakes her head and glances over her shoulder before rounding the doorframe.

Juggie sends her an exaggerated wink, and she grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hi how's it goin?
> 
> I really hope that everything to do with their relationship and discussion feels real and genuine, because that's the whole reason I started writing this follow up. I wanted to see our favourite couple struggle with and go through something completely normal, something like communication breakdown.
> 
> Let me know what you think so far! There's one more chapter to go, I think.


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